


Ladies Maid

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Lifted Character(s), F/F, Fluff and Smut, Masturbation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Seduction-ish, Sexual Inexperience, Voyeurism, probably slightly au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 00:36:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Sansa sleeps in another girl's bed for the first time in years. Then she learns what girls might do when alone in their beds.





	Ladies Maid

**Author's Note:**

> So it's been pointed out to me that I've never actually written proper Sansaery fic where they're the main pairing, as opposed to a background element. And, given it's Femslash February, I figured I should at least have a go. Then the kink generator gave me "masturbation (with an audience) + cuddling." This ensued.

It's been a very long time since Sansa shared a bed with another girl. Years since she stopped being willing to share her rooms with Arya, claiming it was immature, and a further year since she broke the habit of running to her mother whenever a nightmare came to her. She winces to think of them both. But still, when Margaery asked if she wouldn't mind staying in her rooms tonight, Sansa was pleased – pleased, but embarrassed.

_Are you sure? Why me?_ she'd wanted to ask. And then she'd wondered aloud, “will people not talk?”, now knowing this wicked southern court for what it was.

But Margaery had smiled and given her a sisterly kiss on the cheek. “Of course not _,_ ” she'd said. “I share my bed with my cousins all the time. They've all had to return to the Reach though, and I'm terribly lonely.”

And so Sansa had turned up at nightfall in her sleeping dress, blushing as Margaery greeted her in her own shift, lilac silk so pale it was almost translucent. “Why, don't you look lovely with your hair loose,” she said brushing it over Sansa's shoulders, and Sansa blushed deeper.

Still, eventually the two girls settled into Margaery's spacious bed – every inch appropriate for the queen she would soon be – and Sansa conquered her nerves enough to sleep, Margaery's warm body curled against her back, reminding her of cuddles with her sister that she would have made sure Arya never told anyone about on pain of death.

Unfortunately, she has a dream. She can't remember what it's about. Some handsome knight, she's sure. All she knows is as soon as she opens her eyes, she's hot, panting, sweaty, and a terrible ache has settled between her legs.

Margaery is still curled around her, her body feeling ever more soft, gentle, lovely when Sansa is so oversensitive, and she slowly tries to extract herself from the embrace, not wanting to wake Margaery with her panting like a dog. Unfortunately, it rather backfires, and at Sansa's movements Margaery's honey-brown eyes, bleary but still lovely, pop open. “Is something the matter, Lady Sansa?” she asks. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Sansa's mouth drops open. _No, not a nightmare._ Then she blushes again. This is not the first time this has happened to her, that she's woken at night hot and trembling, aching for something she barely knows the words for, but she doesn't want Margaery to think she's _wanton_. “N-no, I'm fine,” she says, not terribly convincing, and blushes deeper. “Just a little hot, that's all.”

With a raise of her eyebrow, Margaery's face settles into something like her usual composure, and Sansa grows inexplicably more anxiously. Suddenly, the duvet is thrown back, leaving her only beneath cool silk sheets. “There you go,” says Margaery, grinning, and Sansa gasps as the night air hits her wet brow. “Is that better?”

It should be, she should be relieved by the loss of warmth, but instead she can see all the curves of Margaery's body beneath the sheets and that only makes her feel hotter. She cannot answer, and so she bites her lip.

At that, Margaery's smirk widens, and she leans in to whisper something conspiratorially in Sansa's ear. Sansa shudders at the feel of the other girl's breath on her neck. “You know, if you need me to visit the commode for a few minutes and leave you alone, I don't mind,” she says. “I've asked my cousins to do that before, after... certain dreams.”

Sansa gasps slightly, turning from pink to red at the thought Margaery might know why she's like this. “L-lady Margaery,” she stutters, but when she pulls back and looks her in the eye, Margaery's face shows no trace of judgement – if anything, she seems faintly amused. “I didn't – I wouldn't – I mean, even if a man – I–”

She stumbles, not knowing what she's saying, and slowly a look of pure sympathy crosses Margaery's face. “Oh, poor girl,” she says. “Have you never touched yourself before?”

Sansa's eyes go wide in alarm. “ _Margaery!_ ” she squeaks, almost afraid someone will hear.

Try as she might, Margaery clearly can't help giggling a little at her prudishness. “Sorry, sweetling. But you don't have to be embarrassed. Lots of girls do it. Most in fact, I'd wager.”

“...Are you sure?” Sansa asks. She has heard other women talk of – touching themselves, although it took her several years before she understood what they meant by that. Still, those women were mostly servants, and she always assumed it was the sort of thing common girls could get away with, but a lady would never. “...Have you?”

Margaery grins wider at that. “What do you think?” she asks, and Sansa blushes deeper. She wants to say Margery wouldn't, she's too good and pure, but she said before... and then she thinks of Margaery, Margery doing _something_ to herself, making her face twist in pleasure, and the throbbing between her legs worsens. “You can relax. There's nobody hear but me, and I promise I won't tell. Besides, your family were here, I'm sure they'd much prefer you doing it to yourself then letting some man take advantage of you. Most girls know how to pleasure themselves better than any man ever will anyway. It won't make you any less of a maid, and any husband won't mind. It's just relief, that's all.” And said like that, from Margaery's sure sweet mouth, Sansa can't help but believe it.

“H-how would I–?” she asks, not quite meeting Margaery's eyes. Margaery keeps smiling, wise and beautiful.

“Just follow your instincts,” she says, running her fingers through Sansa's hair again. Sansa keeps blushing, but she doesn't move away. “Have you never, say, pressed a hand over your centre without thinking about it?” And she blushes deeper. Okay, she has done that. But that doesn't count as touching herself, right? “So start with that. Go on.”

And biting her lip, Sansa reaches beneath the sheets, pressing a hand over where her slit throbs. She lets out a loud, embarrassing moan at the sudden pressure, and Margaery grins at that. She's embarrassed, but soon she finds herself rubbing back and forth with the heel of her hand, squirming against the sheets. “Is – is this right?” she gasps.

“From the look on your face, I'd say so,” Margaery says, teasing, and Sansa, despite being tempted to close her eyes as she palms at herself faster, keeps staring at Margaery's gentle face. “You don't want me to leave, do you?”

Without thinking about it, Sansa shakes her head vigorously. “I – I could use the advice,” she says, and she tells herself that's what it is, that there is no other reason she'd want Lady Margaery in her bed as she pleasures herself for the first time.

Margaery seemingly can't help but smile at that. “Well in that case,” she whispers, “why don't you try lifting your dress, touching yourself beneath your underthings? I think it will feel better.”

Sansa whimpers, but she does as she's asked, hitching her nightgown up to her waist and sliding a finger beneath the band of her smallclothes. When she drags it along the length of her slit, she gasps, and her hips rock forward seemingly of their own accord, a pulsing coming from deep inside her. Biting her lip, she slowly explores what each spot makes her feel, and at the tip of her she feels a little nub that makes her cry out when she circles it. “Oh!” And she does so again, each time finding it more pleasurable. “Oh, oh, oh!”

Margaery grins as Sansa frantically circles that spot, making deeper and richer waves of pleasure come over her, until she starts to thrash against the sheets. “Did you just find your nub, sweetling?” she asks. “Good for you. Trust me, it won't be so any for any man you marry. So go on, enjoy yourself. Doesn't it feel nice?”

Sansa nods frantically, bucking as she rubs herself completely wanton. But the ribbon of her smallclothes is starting to dig into her wrist. “Margaery – my underthings, they're a little – would you mind if I–?”

Took them off? Why of course,” Margaery tells her, eyes twinkling. “Whatever makes this easier for you, dear.”

Sansa blushes, but she quickly pulls her smallthings down to her ankles and leaves them to get lost among the sheets before returning her finger to where it was before. “ _Oh_ ,” she moans as she keeps rubbing that nub ever more frantically, and she should feel ashamed of how lewd she sounds, but it's hard even to think now.

She realises she ought to be thinking of something, a man of some description, to help her through this. That's what men touch themselves to, isn't it, pretty girls? Perhaps she could think of Loras, in all his beauty and prowess, even if Margaery might find that a little embarrassing to have her friend moaning her brother's name. But instead, she finds herself unable to think of anyone but Margaery, looking into that face of chestnut locks and golden eyes and sweetness and secrets, just as beautiful as her brother, more beautiful than her brother, _oh_ –

Suddenly, the sheet is gone. Sansa yelps in surprise, and Margaery grins at her again. “You looked hot,” she says, but Sansa finally hears something wicked in her voice, and then she realises Margaery can see her, pressing her own fingers to her cunt, seeking nothing but pleasure. Then something happens, she does not know what but something comes over her, her slit trembles and tightens and she cries out, thrashing her head against the pillow, a wave of pleasure fiercer than any before seemingly claiming her body for its own. It seems to last an age, and when it's finally over she's left panting again, trembling as she still idly rubs her nub, painfully sensitive. She stops, and looks toward Margaery, wide-eyed and confused. “W-what just–?”

“Your first peak dear,” Margaery tells her, like a proud big sister. Then, all of a sudden, she takes Sansa's hand and holds the fingers up to her mouth. Sansa gasps as Margaery sucks her now-wet fingers clean. _Oh gods._ Once they are, Margaery pulls back, and smirks at her. “Hopefully, one of many more to come.”

Sansa blushes. Now she is thinking straight, she's started to realise the abnormality of all this – having touched herself under the watchful eyes of another girl. Margaery having thrown back the sheets so she could look better while Sansa did it. Sansa having stared at Margaery's face and thought about how lovely she is throughout. Margaery having cleaned Sansa's fluids off her fingers after. Sansa thinks – at least she hopes – Margaery didn't do any of that with her cousins.

She is worried. Her relationship with the gods, both her mother's and her father's, has always been a little bit confused, but she doubts either of them would approve. The Seven-Pointed Star does say a lot about buggery, about the things two men may do together, and while she does not know it says anything about two women surely the principle must be the same. And her father's gods, well, there isn't a book that could tell her exactly what they thing, but she does remember there was one of the Umber lords who always got a lot of stares and whispers for this sort of thing.

But despite her worries, Margaery looks at her so kindly, so gently, running her fingers through Sansa's hair again. That makes it hard to think anything's wrong. Sansa opts not to think about it, at least not right now, and looks down between her legs instead. She blushes when she realises the small stain she's left there. “I got your sheets wet,” she says, confused, embarrassed and apologetic, and Margaery just laughs.

“What, that? Don't worry about it. It's a nice wide bed.” Then Sansa has her hand grabbed and she's pulled away from the wet patch, settled on top of Margaery's chest, and despite being a few inches taller than the other girl she curls up so she can lean her head against Margaery's bosom. She sighs in contentment. “Really, I'm honoured. It's not everyone who gets to see such a lovely girl come for the first time.”

Sansa pulls her head up. She blushes, embarrassed again, but finds herself asking something. “You know, Margaery,” she says. “I-if you wanted to do the same, I – well, I wouldn't _mind_...”

A pause, and then Margaery grins again, leaning up and – for just a second too long – kissing Sansa on the cheek. “Why, Lady Sansa,” she says, “I thought you'd never ask.”


End file.
